When we are sunck too low, Gods hand must reare us.
Then, neither stormings of Adversitie,
Shall drowne the Seedes of Hope, which we have sowne;
Nor shall the Sunne-beames of Prosperitie,
Drie up their moisture, ere they ripe are growne.
Oh Lord, thou know'st the nature of my minde;
Thou know'st my bodyes tempers what they are;
And, by what meanes, they shall be best inclin'de
Such Fruits to yeeld, as they were made to beare.
My barren Soule, therefore, manure thou so;